Part 62 (1/2)

”Oh, he is talking in his sleep,” said Mr. Timm, ”give me a gla.s.s of water, Lizzie; I believe that will wake him up.”

At last the colossus stood upright, but not without swaying to and fro like a beacon in a storm. Still he could stand on his feet now, and, as Mr. Goodheart happened to know where he lived, the task of carrying him home seemed feasible. Mr. Timm seized him by one arm, the man with the odd eyes by the other, and thus they managed to lift him up to the cellar door and into the street.

The night was as dark as a night can be when there are no stars visible. The wind was sweeping mournfully through the deserted streets and threatened to extinguish the few gas-lights that were still burning. Mr. Schmenckel recovered in the fresh air somewhat, and embraced his companions tenderly; then he vowed them eternal friends.h.i.+p, and promised each of them a hundred thousand roubles as soon as it should be fully established that Prince Waldenberg, whom he had whipped that day under the Lindens, was really his own son. Thus they reached the street, then the house, and at last even the little bed-room in which Director Caspar Schmenckel, from Vienna, was residing for the present. Mr. Schmenckel sank down upon his modest couch, and his two companions left him, but not until Mr. Jeremiah had pulled out a dark-lantern from his pocket and gone about, to Mr. Timm's great astonishment, examining every corner of the room. What he found was not much: iron b.a.l.l.s, bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s, sticks and staves of all kinds, drums and trumpets, odds and ends, all in fearful disorder.

”Now you must fill the measure of your kindness,” said Timm, when they were in the street again, ”and tell me my way home. I live----”

”White Horse, Falcon street, No. 43, back room,” interrupted Mr.

Jeremiah Goodheart, closing his lantern and putting it back into his pocket.

”Are you the devil?” cried Mr. Timm, nervously retreating a step. ”How can you know where I live; I have told n.o.body.”

”Do you think so eloquent a speaker at the great meeting at the Booths can long remain unknown to us?” said Mr. Goodheart.

”To us? To whom?” asked Timm.

”Never mind that. Anyhow, I would advise you to deliver your speaking exercises rather within the four walls of your house, especially for the sake of our little affair, which might be sadly interfered with if, for instance, you should go to jail.”

”Pshaw!” said Timm; ”do you think I covet the glory of a political martyr? I have given the good people a speech because I like to talk; and secondly, because I was angry at the fools.”

”All the better,” said the other, dryly.

As they were pa.s.sing under a gas-light Timm cast a glance at his companion, and all of a sudden he understood the enigmatical appearance of the man, and the ”us” which he had used.

”Excuse me, Mr. Goodheart,” he said. ”I think I have heard your brother say that you are a highly-valued member of the Secret Police. Is that so?”

The man with the odd eyes smiled.

”You are a cunning fox,” he said, ”and have a keen scent. My brother, to be sure, did not tell you any such thing, for he knows nothing about it; nor did Rosalie tell you, for she knows it, but she has her reasons not to speak of it; consequently----”

”The evil one must have told me,” interrupted Timm, quite restored to his former sense of security by this proof of his ingenuity. ”I think I might have made a good detective.”

”That might depend on yourself alone.”

”How so?”

The man with the odd eyes did not answer his question, but said, as they had reached a corner of the street:

”That is your way. I shall call at eleven o'clock. Then we will talk the matter over more fully.”

The two men parted. Their footsteps were heard for a while down the lonely streets, while the gray twilight was slowly rising over the house-tops.

CHAPTER VIII.

In a fine room of a large private hotel in Broad street there sat, a few days later, Melitta and Baron Oldenburg. A lamp was burning on the table; lighted wax-candles were standing on the mantel-piece and on the consoles. Frau von Berkow expected other visitors that night, and Oldenburg had only availed himself of the privilege of an old friend to come before the appointed time.

”It seems to me you are very silent to-night, Adalbert,” said Melitta, putting her work on the table and turning with a kindly smile to Oldenburg. ”I talk to you of the children, how hearty the boy has grown, and how pretty Czika looks in her fas.h.i.+onable dresses, and you look--well, how do you look?”

”Like the knight of the rueful countenance, most probably; at least I feel so, from head to foot;” replied Oldenburg, rising and walking up and down in the room.